My passion lies on a distant shore, but like driftwood floats away,
Only to return to the beach again, for a moment, but doesn't stay.

But if I could put my hand on it, and pick it up to claim,
Would I still be so passionate, and behold it just the same?

And just like a sparkle in the grass, from many, many, yards away,
What I see from here is beautiful, and intriguing in every way.

Yet many times on closer inspection, things appear not so bright.
Like plastic hiding in Bahia blades, on a rainy, moonlit night.

And maybe I appear amazing too, to the one on the distant shore,
But if all the miles were finally crossed, would the interest still endure?

Why must we always take what we have,
And try to turn it into so much more?
And then in the end be remorseful when,
We can't put it back how it was before.